Checkmate: The First Quarter Quell
by Captain-Confusion
Summary: With the odds ever against her, Forsythia must make a choice between life and death. And the path she chooses will mar the Capitol's reputiation forever. There's a reason no one talks about the first Quarter Quell...
1. The Reaping

A/N: Hello, all! This is my first Hunger Games fic (and the first I've written in a while), so I hope I haven't gotten too rusty. Let me know what you think so far or if you have any questions. For those who are wondering, the story is based on all original characters, and this is not an SYOT. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

...

I'm pulled from my sleep by the gentle caress of a hand on my cheek. I open my eyes slowly, blinking in the flood of sunlight. My mother hovers above me, seated comfortably at my side. She must have been there for a long time. As she sits, she tenderly strokes the side of my face, patiently waiting as I slowly come to.

My mother is beautiful. Her hair hangs in silky, light strands that remind me of autumn, and her blue eyes are deep with love and mysteries. Though the wrinkles of stress, hunger, and fear have pressed deep creases into her face, she still possesses a youthful vitality that beams through her eyes when she smiles. Her laughter is contagious, her warmth and kindness abundant. I've never looked up to another person the way I do her, and I don't think I ever will. She's more than a mother to me – she and my father are the only reason I'm still alive.

After a few minutes, I muster the strength to sit up in bed, the room tilting around me as I gain my balance. The small effort makes my heart pound. I sigh in frustration as she takes my hand.

"How do you feel?" she asks softly.

"About the same." Mother sighs, fear in her eyes. I remember that today is the reaping and wonder how I'm supposed to make it to the town square like this. The Peacekeepers aren't usually merciful. They know that I'm sick, but they know I'm capable of leaving the house and returning in one piece. I just hope that I won't have to move very much.

"What time is it?" I inquire, staring out the window. Judging by the position of the sun, it must be past noon already. My mother is already outfitted in her usual pink dress. How late did she let me sleep?

"It's a little past two. We should be leaving in about two hours." I stiffen and sit up straighter, pulling the sheets from my body.

"Mom, you should have told me so I could get ready." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but she firmly places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

"Not so fast. I'll help you." She gently takes my arm and nods slowly, helping me out of bed. My knees wobble as I stand, half from the illness and half from lying in bed for over two weeks. I realize that, aside from standing up to pee and bathe, I haven't really walked in over a month. The doctor advised me against leaving the house altogether. Of course, today couldn't be avoided.

After I'm steady on my feet, my mother guides me to the other side of the room and patiently helps me slip into my light blue gown. It's made of an uncomfortable starchy material that itches and sticks to my skin, but I don't complain – it's about the only dress I own long enough to keep me warm. When I've finished buttoning the front, Mother helps me wash my hair and prepares me a hot bowl of sweet rice and milk. She combs out the tangles in my blonde locks while I gulp down the food, then wraps them into a bun. She ties a single blue ribbon in and plants a light kiss on my forehead. I smile and kiss her on the cheek.

My mother has sacrificed everything to take care of me. She used to be a schoolteacher, and despite the minimal payment, she loved her job. The children looked up to her and admired her as if she were their own mother. They flocked to her at recess and tugged her every which way, showing her off to their parents anytime they met outside of school. Even the other teachers adored her. The school was a second home to her.

Then my skin started bruising, and I became frequently ill. The teachers at my own school suspected that I was faking sick for attention, perhaps being abused, but it only became worse. Within months, I was too weak and tired to attend school. The teachers pushed me away, afraid I'd come down with a contagious disease and that I might infect some of the other students. To check for signs of plague, a doctor was called in all the way from District 1. He examined me thoroughly, performing strange tests on my body, telling us only that my illness was no contagious, but that I was going to die.

And that was the end of it. As soon as she knew, she developed a strict regimen and stuck to it, staying at my side every minute to ensure that I last as long as I can. We barely get by, now, and my father has to work two jobs just to come home with a loaf of bread for dinner. But neither of them have ever complained. They say that it's more important that I'm cared for than that we live in better conditions, so long as we have food and water. I still feel as if I owe an enormous debt. Of course, it's a little late to worry about paying them back.

Shortly after my breakfast, my father returns home. He's brought back a small back of cherries – who knows how he managed to pay for those – and a fresh chicken to eat for dinner. We always have celebration food after the reaping, like all the other families, but he's really gone all out this year.

"How'd you pay for all of this?" I ask him, gently taking his hand. He smiles and ruffles my hair, eliciting a laugh from me, and I push his hands away from my head before he can mess up the bun.

"Don't worry about it, sugardrop," he says. I smile at the old nickname. He hasn't called me that in ages. "It's been a rough year. I think we all deserve a little treat." I can't say I disagree. Anyway, I haven't eaten much solid food over the past several months. Chicken sounds like an otherworldly pleasure at this point.

My mom helps him put away the food while I sit and wait. Just as the clock chimes three, my father pulls out the wheelchair. It's a dusty old thing, and the wheels often get jammed, but it was the best he could trade for. I'm just glad that he was able to find a means of transportation for me. I sink into the seat cautiously while my mom drapes a wooly blanket over my shoulders to keep me warm. As a final touch, my dad grabs the strip of cloth hanging over the table and gently places it over my mouth, tying the strings together beneath my bun. Though I don't look like it, I feel like royalty with all the kindness and care I'm receiving. I wonder how many other parents in a poverty hole like District 8 would do the same for their own children. I've heard of a lot of kids in similar conditions being euthanized. The very thought sends a shudder down my bare neck. Though I know I'm going to die one way or another, I can't imagine letting someone finish the job for me.

The streets are filled with other parents and children when we step outside into the blinding sun. Those who see us offer a friendly wave and sympathetic smiles to me. A few adults hang back while their children run ahead to talk to my parents, exchanging nervous jokes and wishing me the best of luck. As my mother hangs behind and smoothly pushes the chair, she bends down and kisses the top of my head very lightly, adjusting my ribbon.

We turn the corner next to a row of white apartments and eventually pass the factory. Even through the cloth, I can smell the sweet, chemical fumes, and my stomach turns slightly. We get through the area as fast as we can manage and finally make the turn into the town square, which is now teeming with thousands of frightened children and their parents. I've never been afraid of the games. My parents forbid me from ever taking any tesserae no matter how much good it would do. Meanwhile, all of the other kids my age probably have their names in at least thirty times by now, if not more. It's the only way to stay fed for many. If it weren't for the cause behind my parents' concern, the other kids would probably be jealous. But no one holds envy for me. I'm already fighting for my life.

As we near the entrance, a couple of men in white suits prick my finger and instruct someone to take me. I grab my mother's hand and squeeze it tightly. She blows me a kiss, mouthing, "You'll be fine" to me. I know she's right. Still, the separation makes me anxious.

A tall girl in a yellow sundress takes my wheelchair and pushes me to the section with all the other fourteens. The other kids part to make way for me, nervously stepping aside as if afraid that I might be catching. Most people have a vague sense of who I am from seeing me before, but few are aware that I'm not contagious. I don't care. I don't really have friends anymore, so it doesn't matter what they think.

Over time, the crowd gradually begins to settle down. It seems almost all of the district has finally arrived, and now, with the reaping drawing ever closer, talk of who will be selected is flitting between clusters of the girls around me.

The Hunger Games are different this year. It's the 25th anniversary, and according to custom, this will be Panem's first Quarter Quell. It was explained that the games would go on normally, like they always do. But this year, the tributes would not be chosen via random selection. No, this year, the tributes were to be voted in. Sometime last month, Peacekeepers visited each of our homes and gathered a vote from every household member over the age of twelve. My parents begrudgingly chose a name at random from the list, as most other parents did, in hopes that they wouldn't happen to choose the same one as too many others. No one truly had any desire to vote someone into the game, but we were left with no choice. I could think of very few individuals who would deliberately choose a specific person from the list. Still, I knew of a few kids who were in immediate danger.

I search the crowd and spot Roma Pax in the boys' group. I could see a few people choosing him. He was a big burly kid with dark, mean eyes and a meaner character. He was notorious for stealing items from the school, and supposedly he'd been arrested three times. Those who knew of him had little respect for him. I could think of few others who'd given themselves such a bad name. I almost felt bad for him, thinking back to the voting week. His luck was slim. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he were selected as male tribute.

As for the females, I was entirely clueless. I didn't know of any girls who were particularly detested. True, there were a few cruel queens who took pleasure in humiliating girls who didn't have the guts to stand up for themselves. But even then, I couldn't imagine them all choosing a sole target. No one was that cruel. Still, as the minutes tick off, the girls around me become increasingly more nervous. One bursts out in tears, certain that she has been voted off, and the others wrap their arms around her in comfort, assuring her that anyone could've been voted in. Sniveling, she finally brings herself under control. In the commotion, I don't notice when Julius Cadman, the District 8 escort, makes his way to the stage.

A sudden squeak from the speakers announces that the reaping was about to begin. Julius, his lips lined in a neon green that perfectly matched his glittering emerald suit, flashes a white grin to the citizens of District 8. He spreads his arms open as if to reach out and hug the audience. The gesture makes me flinch, and I self-consciously chew on the cloth guarding my mouth.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" he booms over the loudspeakers in his nasal Capitol accent, his arms outstretched. His voice reminds me of newscasters and sports announcers. "Welcome, to the 25th annual Hunger Games!" By requirement, the audience claps. Their enthusiasm is as real as Julius's sparkly, pearlescent Capitol teeth.

When the crowd quiets, he continues. "It's a pleasure to be here in District 8 to celebrate Panem's first Quarter Quell. As you all know, this year is going to be different. Two of you brave youth have been selected by your own peers to compete, and my, is it going to be an exciting competition. But before we reveal the results, a word from Mayor Chet Enton!" The crowd claps a little more enthusiastically as our mayor, appearing tired and sullen, makes his way to the front of the stage and begins with his usual procedure. He drones through the history of our country, the creation of the Hunger Games, the purpose of the games, their rules. Finally, he concludes his monotone speech by gesturing back to Julius to take the stage again. The crowd falls entirely silent. No one dares to breathe.

"Thank you, Enton, for that wonderful introduction. And now, without further adieu, it's time to announce this year's tributes! And as a little changeup, we're starting with the boys this year."

Unlike usual, the glass balls on the stage contain only one slip of paper each. They seem eerily empty without thousands of other entries, and it's all the more frightening to look at. There is no random chance, here. The fate of the tributes has already been decided. This is only an announcement – their dooms were sealed last week.

Julius makes an agonizing show of waltzing to the glass ball with excruciating slowness. He reaches his hand in, and the audience holds its breath. I watch his hand lift out the slip of paper, folded in half, and bring it to the microphone. He opens it and stares at the name without answer for a moment. Then, finally, he opens his reptilian green mouth.

"Brezzo Gafelle!" he crows into the microphone. All turn to watch as a pool of emptiness forms around a scrawny boy who appears about my age. He stiffens and stares straight ahead as if waiting for the man to announce that he misread, that it was all a big mistake. But no such thing happens, and it becomes increasingly clearer with each millisecond that there was no mistake, and that this boy was indeed sentenced to death by the district.

Slowly, shaking, the boy makes his way up to the stage. Faces in the audience darken with regret, and I realize that some of them must have, for whatever reason, chosen him. He finishes his walk of shame and drags himself to the front of the stage, standing beside Julius, whose saccharine grin never falters.

"Congratulations, Brezzo," he greets the boy, shaking his hand firmly. Brezzo remains stationary, his face pale. I wonder if he's about to faint. "Let's get a round of applause for this brave young man!" The audience begins to clap very slowly. It's a hollow sound that barely leaves an echo.

"And now, for our female tribute," Julius announces, making his way to the girl ball. I glance at the nervous girls all around me, waiting anxiously to see who will be chosen. The world starts to tilt slightly, and I realize that my heart is racing. Though I'm familiar with very few of them, I fear for them all the same. Watching girls my age go into the arena and die is never pleasant.

Julius makes his way back to the microphone once again, his lips stretching into a broad smile. He unfolds the paper, and much more quickly than before, announces the name.

"Forsythia Alcroft!"

My heart stops beating altogether. My skin flushes. My stomach drops. Two or three girls turn to look at me, and somewhere far away millions of miles into a muffled abyss, I think I hear my mother screaming. I'm thankful for the cloth over my face, so others can't see the horrified expression that twists my features. Slowly, very slowly, the audience turns to watch. Their faces drop instantly, cold with shame. Even Julius seems to falter for a moment, his lips almost twitching into a frown. He must be wondering if this is a sick joke, but apparently it isn't. I've been voted off to compete in Panem's first Quarter Quell.


	2. Claustrophobia

Two Peacekeepers approach and grab my chair from behind, moving me away from the crowd and toward the suddenly ominous stage that towers above me. I want to leap out and make a run for it, to reach over and grab the ropes for dear life, but I may as well be an infant. As the wheelchair is shoved forward, precariously bumping against the steps, Julius Cadman stares at me like I've just crawled out of some horrific chasm from Hell. Though a smile is plastered onto his lips, his cheeks are almost as green as his suit. He looks as sick as I feel. Finally, the Peacekeepers manage to push me up the final step, and with a jolt, I'm rolled across the stage so that everyone can have a good look at me.

I scan the crowd in disbelief, the breath sucked out of my chest. I can't even begin to imagine why they voted as they did. How it came out to be me, and not one of the cruel schoolgirls who sadistically tormented their peers. What was going through these people's heads when they saw my name on that list? Did they even think about it? Didn't they recognize it? Maybe they were like my parents and chose blindly – after all, not very many people aside from my neighbors cpuld possibly know who I am. Yes, that must have been it. An accident.

"Well, it seems we have our tributes!" Julius announces, gesturing to us. The grin has returned to his face permanently, but even now, his voice sounds funny, like clean water that's been tainted with ink. He shakes hands with Brezzo again, then approaches and gives mine a gentle squeeze as if afraid he might break me.

"Good luck to both of you, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor. Now, for the Treaty of Treason and the National Anthem."

Julius begins to recite the document, and I stare straight ahead, not daring to show any trace of fear. Thankfully, the cloth covers most of my face. All the cameras will see are my tired, solemn eyes. As I glance around, the audience plays hide and seek with me. Wherever I look, they look in a different direction. No one dares to meet my eyes. Not even Brezzo, who's standing right beside me staring intently at his shoes. I dare a glance in his direction, and he looks up, just for a second. His black eyes, like marbles, bore into mine with hatred, but not for me. There are a billion unspoken vulgarities hovering in the air, and all of them are directed at the Capitol and reflected back to the people. I shiver as a breeze flutters through the late afternoon air, chilling me down to the inside of my bones. My palms are clammy. My body feels frozen on the outside, but hot in the inside. All I want to do is sleep.

Finally, the Treaty of Treason comes to a close, and the anthem begins. Still, no one dares to breathe, and no applause follows. I grip the edge of my seat and dig my nails into the rubber, knowing it's almost time to leave. As expected, a Peacekeeper grabs the chair from behind and directs me away from the million eyes, away from the cameras, away from the faces of the people who got me into this.

I'm whisked away to the City Hall. What seems like millions of reporters from the Capitol swarm behind us with their cameras, but I do my best to pretend that they aren't there. I may as well be deaf and dumb with how I'm acting. I could be a vegetable for all they know. But I think they can sense I'm still here. Beneath the blanket, I'm shivering almost violently now, and not from cold or fever. I'm frightened, and everyone can see it. The cloth manages to cover up my face, but the terror is obvious in my eyes.

We spin around a corner, and I almost fall from my chair. the men are so careless. I barely have time to take in the luxurious decorations of the main lobby before I'm rushed into a small room and left alone, the door shutting behind me with a dull thud. Finally, a moment to myself.

I sigh shakily and yank the fabric away from my face, feeling claustrophobic in the tiny space. Though decorated lavishly with fine artistic carpets, shimmering golden curtains, elaborate rugs, and plush white furniture, the room feels like a prison. All I want is to get up and run away, but I'm trapped in here. From this point and until the games begin, the Capitol will decide on my every move. I'm not sure what they'll do about my condition, and I'm not sure I want to know. The thought of stumbling around the arena like this makes my legs tremble. If I can barely walk, how can they expect me to outrun the other tributes? _Maybe they don't… _The thought makes me shiver. I feel my heart pulsing roughly and realize I've worked myself up too much. Just being afraid has already worn me out. I tilt my head back and lean against the chair, attempting to fall asleep or at least drift into a state of nothing at all.

A knock on the door startles me out of my trance. I look up as the mahogany swings open, and in walk my parents. Their eyes are puffy and bloodshot, their cheeks splotchy. It's more than obvious that they've been crying. The sight makes my heart lurch. Without a word, my mother sweeps me into her arms, sobbing quietly into my shoulder. I bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair and try to block everything out.

"I'm so sorry, baby. So, so sorry," she whispers, kissing my hair. "You're such a sweet girl, you don't deserve this…"

I want to say something back to her, but the words die in my throat, so I just keep hugging her tightly through her tears until her face has dried. After her, my father takes his turn and draws me into a tight hug. His arms envelop my body and fill me with tender warmth. I almost feel like a sleeping baby, snuggled into his soft embrace. All I want to do is stay there, sleep, but time won't allow for that. All too soon, he pulls away from me and plants both hands firmly on my shoulders. His eyes lock onto mine, glowing with intensity.

"Listen to me, Forsythia," he says sternly. "You will do whatever you must in order to suvive. I don't care what you have to do or how awful it is, you do it." I tremble slightly. I want to whimper out and tell him how I know I'm hopeless, but feeling like a coward, I bite my tongue. His eyes are so serious. I've never seen them burn with so much rage, and yet, so much determination. It's almost as if he's the one going into the arena, not I. Gripping his hand, I nod quickly, hoping silently that maybe I'll absorb some of his bravery.

Again, my mother hugs me and pulls me to her while my father lightly strokes my arm. Nothing is said. Nothing more can be said. We wait and wait like this, never wanting to let go of each other, until a Peacekeeper finally arrives at the door.

"Time to go," he announces, gesturing for them to follow.

"We'll be watching you, baby! Be strong!" my mother shouts. Her voice is smothered by the closing door, and all is silent again.

Now I can't bear it anymore. I feel my throat clench shut and bury my face into my hands while tears start rolling down my cheeks. I'm cold, I'm tired, I'm afraid, I'm alone, I'm sick, and I just want to go home and have cherries with Mom and Dad while we celebrate another year of safety. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. I did everything I could to avoid this, and here I am, at only fourteen, barely able to sit up on my own, and expected to somehow compete in the Hunger Games.

_This can't be happening, _I think over and over. I cough into my blanket and shake my head violently as if to shake away today's events. _This is just a nightmare. Tomorrow you'll wake up, and it'll be reaping day, and someone else will get chosen instead of you._ I want so badly to believe it's true, but with each second, I become more certain that this nightmare is the terrible reality. I feel something building in my stomach and pressing into my chest, something crawling through my veins that isn't sickness. One thought plays in my head on repeat. _I have to get out of here…_

Petrified for minutes, all I do is stare at the door. My legs are wobbling, and I know they won't support me. But I have to try. Anything to get out of here. Anything to get away. An eternity passes while I sit, drumming my fingers impatiently. Then, a sound outside the door – footsteps! My heart leaps. This is it. This is my only chance.

I see the handle turn and do my best to appear placid and calm as the door swings open. One Peacekeeper steps behind me while his friend stands by and looks bored. _One… Two… Three… Go! _

Before they have a chance to react, I leap up from the chair and make a mad dash for the door. Both are so startled that it takes them a moment to realize what's happening. I laugh inwardly with giddy delight as my legs, though shaking as if they might break in half, carry me through the threshold and away toward freedom. It's been so long since I've run, I almost feel as though time has sped up. As my feet slap the marble floor and I pass a row of portraits and columns, I know I'm getting closer and closer to the lobby, to the outside. I can't believe the sheer power and speed with which I'm running – it's as if I've suddenly stepped out of my old, sick body and into the skin of a powerful god.

A pair of hands on my arms, wrenching me backward with minimal effort, remind me me that I'm much slower than I imagined. "Noooooo!" I scream out, kicking my legs and struggling feverishly with all of the energy that I can gather. The blood is pounding in my face, and the world is whirling in nauseating circles. My legs ache from the movement, but at this point I don't care. I'll kick and scream and fight until I make them let go of me, even if I kill myself in the process.

"You can't do this to me!" I screech. A sudden sharp pain in my back, and the world disappears.


	3. First Impression

_I'm at school. We all sit scattered on the floor while rain comes down in heavy sheets outside, roaring like static. I clutch a tiny white pearl in my hands, afraid that the other kids will try to steal it from me if I let them see it. Every time I pull my hands away, it sends a thin beam of light through the ceiling, where anyone can see. I can't let someone take it. It means too much._

_The pearl is trying to escape. I turn my hands in different directions and try holding it in different positions, but it keeps slipping toward the cracks between my fingers like heavy water. I find myself growing immensely tired from trying to restrain the thing, and soon enough, my hands go numb and the rain lulls me into a light sleep. _

_When I open my eyes, the pearl is gone. Startled, I look through my hands and brush each one off carefully, checking every part of myself that I can think of. It's nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I look through my hair – and as I yank the strands, a clump falls loose and withers in my fist. I drop the hair and continue my search as other strands fall loose and drop to the floor. My head is spinning. Mind is racing. I have to find that pearl. _

_I look up and see Julius Cadman, a colossal snake wearing a sparkling diamond vest, sitting across from me. He's knitting a long rope out of my blonde hair, weaving them into thick knots that stretch across the entire room. And among the strands of hair is my pearl._

"_I need that," I tell him. He ignores me and flicks out his pink tongue to taste the air, amber eyes trained on his work. The rope is getting longer and thicker with each moment, and the white pearl is slowly vanishing into the mass. I get on my knees and yank the strands apart, unraveling the rope. But Julius continues weaving. The more I pull on the rope, the longer it gets. The pearl is disappearing now, sinking under the bulk of dead hair. I scream and dive after it, fighting the new strands that keep twisting around me. I can feel it tangling on my skin, wrapping around my body. I have to get that pearl._

_A length of hair curls around my head and wraps itself over my mouth, cutting off my oxygen. I don't have much longer. Another rope wraps around my eyes, and I can no longer see. I try to shout to Julius, but the sound dies instantly in the bottom of my throat. Now I'm getting desperate. My hands claw furiously through the thick tangles and keep moving until suddenly, by a miracle, they clasp something._

_The hair drops from my face, stopping its movement. I clutch my precious treasure and hold it to the ceiling, standing up and shaking the dead mane from my legs. It's only then, as I stand, that I realize something is missing. My other hand goes to touch my hair, only to find the surface smooth and fleshy and cold. All of it has fallen out and now lays in a vast, graying ocean on the floor. I look up at Julius, who's huddled in the corner of the room. His eyes glisten with pain, and he crumples his body into a tight coil, twitching as if he's been injured. I step backward, gripping the pearl against my chest._

_His body snaps like a whip, and his fangs puncture my heart before I have a chance to scream._

I bolt upright, panting heavily. My skin and my clothes are drenched, and my head spins like someone is turning the room in lazy circles. I open my mouth to shout for my mother, only to remember with disappointment that she isn't here. Then I realize that I don't even know where I am.

I glance around the room, surveying the place and trying to remember how I ended up here. Beneath my body are silvery, silken sheets, and I'm huddled in a puffy quilt warmer than any I've ever owned. The walls are a creamy shade of white, my bedposts are elaborately carved and polished, and the plush carpet is the color of a soft, milky rose. A red velvet sofa sits against the wall, and an expensive-looking armoire sits against the wall. And at my bedside is a black wheelchair made of what appears to be fine leather.

Somewhat intrigued, I carefully step out of bed and sink into the smooth material. If I'm going to find out where I am, this is my key out of here. But when I grab the wheels, they refuse to move, firmly locked in place. For a wheelchair, this thing isn't very mobile. Sighing with frustration, I search the device for some kind of trigger, some kind of lever that's keeping it in place, but I find none. Then, I notice the small pad of buttons along the right armrest and press one. The chair lurches forward suddenly, startling me. I wait for a moment and try again, pushing myself toward the door. Then I press the button behind it, and it scoots backward with ease. A smile tentatively twitches onto my lips – if I'm going to need the Capitol's assistance, this is a good sign. A very good sign.

After I've played with the controls a little more, I push myself to the door. When I touch the place where the knob should be, it slides into the wall automatically, and I emerge into a short hallway. I can hear footsteps from the other end, so I know I must be getting closer to people. Closer to answers.

I follow the sounds until I enter a vast dining room. A table stretches out in front of me, cluttered with dozens of items that I barely recognize. Mixed in are a few familiar foods – oatmeal, oranges, eggs, toast, and cheese – but the rest is completely alien. I feel a slight surge of envy and bewilderment – this much food would have fed my family for a month back home. Eyeing the enormous selection of food, I forget that I'm alone.

"Sleep well?"

I jerk my head up to see Brezzo sitting across from me, gnawing on a piece of toast. His sandy hair hangs in tousled, messy clumps, and dark creases under his eyes tell me he hasn't slept much. I can't blame him.

"I suppose," I respond, reaching for a china plate and scooping a few boiled eggs onto the side. "You seem energetic this morning," I comment in light sarcasm. Brezzo grunts, gulping down a cup of coffee.

"You got that right. Insomnia's fucking fantastic, isn't it?" I raise my eyebrows, surprised, but refrain from commenting on his language. I'm not used to hearing people speak like that. Brezzo laughs.

"You act like you've never heard someone swear." I bite my lip.

"I've _heard _people swear. It's just—surprising, coming from a kid. How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen." I nod. From far away he looks much younger, mostly from his lanky figure. But up close, I can see an old tiredness in his face that tries to hide in his eyes.

"And you?" he bounces the question back.

"Fourteen." He pauses for a few moments, scrutinizing me closely, as if this changes some impression he'd previously made. I study him in turn, wondering exactly why he was voted into the games. Maybe he was just a random chance like me. Or maybe he had a bad reputation. It was hard to tell.

"Why do you think you were voted in?" I blurt out before I can take it back. He doesn't seem offended or taken aback by the question though, responding with a casual shrug.

"Dunno. Guess I don't have the best luck."

"They must've chosen at random," I suggest. "I can't think of any other explanation."

"Probably." He stares at me for a few moments with a strange expression, and I see his eyes settling on my wheelchair. There's silence for a few moments, and I tentatively nibble at my eggs. As I eat, Brezzo eyes me with a sort of knowing look, smirking very slightly. It makes me uncomfortable.

"What?" I ask.

"I heard about your little stunt." It takes me a moment to realize what he's talking about. I lower my head, embarrassed. The last thing I need to start the day with is a reminder of my pitiful failure of an escape attempt. I wish I could erase that moment from history. Hopefully it wasn't caught on camera.

"It wasn't my sharpest move."

"It made for a good laugh, though. They won't be forgetting that one anytime soon." I raise a brow at him, my cheeks starting to burn.

"I didn't find it very funny. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?"

"It was awesome. I mean, for one thing, you tried to escape! And then they knocked out a sick kid in a wheelchair. They looked like complete _assholes_," he laughs, leaning back in his chair. Now I'm getting annoyed.

"You probably think it's hilarious, but if it happened to you, I bet you'd be just as humiliated."

"And I bet if it happened to me, you'd think it was just as hilarious."

"Not really. I don't really see how this is funny, at all."

"Maybe you're too serious."

"Maybe you should quit poking fun at me and eat your breakfast."

Brezzo rolls his eyes gives me a devilish smirk. I turn my eyes away and focus on my food instead, deciding to ignore him, and poke at the eggs with my fork. Despite how I haven't eaten since the other morning, I don't feel very hungry. After a few tentative bites, though, I do manage to work up enough of an appetite to finish them and then some toast and coffee. Surprisingly, the food settles well in my stomach, and I don't feel nauseated. Not what I expected from rich food.

I hear footsteps and look up as Julius waltzes into the room, bedecked again in that revolting shade of green. Just to be certain, I scan his face, expecting yellow snake eyes. But he's normal, completely human. The snake from my dream is gone, for now.

"Good morning. I hope both of you slept well," he says, taking a seat at the table and helping himself to a pile of fruit slices and ham. He looks over at me as he chews, his eyes swimming with sympathy.

"How are you this morning, do you feel all right?"

"I'm fine," I murmur, keeping my eyes down.

"Wonderful. The meds must be kicking in." At that, my ears perk up suddenly.

"Meds? You gave me medicine?"

"We administered a few shots before you left the station. I'm glad you're feeling better. You were so weak yesterday, we were worried you wouldn't make the trip." He says it in the most sickeningly sweet sort of way. There's only one word for what he's expressing, and that's pity. Pure, shameless, condescending pity. But in spite of my irritation at his tone, I can't help but to feel a surge of hope at the mention of medication.

Looking up at him, I twirl my hair around my finger. "So—this medicine. What does it do?"

"It'll relieve some of your worst problems. You should be able to walk in a few days." The hope continues to grow.

"And will I be cured when it's time for the games?" I ask. Apparently this is too much. He pouts a little and shakes his head sympathetically, and the balloon in my chest deflates.

"I'm afraid not. We're allowed to treat you, but by the rules of the game, we cannot cure you." I sigh in frustration.

"But why? I mean, what if something happens to me, because I'm sick?"

"Well, that's part of the game. We can't give you an advantage over the other players." He says it so flatly that I wonder if he's really insane enough to think that curing my sickness would give me some kind of advantage, or if he's just regurgitating what he's been taught to say. I'd like to hope for the latter, but the former seems possible and likely, too. It's hard not to question someone's sanity when they dress like a glitzy, flamboyant reptile.

"So when do we get to the Capitol?" Brezzo chimes in, directing the conversation away from me. I'm grateful to be off the subject. The fear of the games is starting to scratch a raw spot in my stomach.

"Very soon, in less than an hour," Julius answers. "Once we arrive, both of you will be taken to your stylists and given a full makeover. We'll take you to the training center – that will be your new home for the week – and then tonight we have the opening ceremony where we introduce the tributes."

It all sounds like such a blur of motion and excitement. I spent so much time in my bedroom that it became the entire world. The events of my day were simplified to eating, sleeping, sewing, chess. Barely existing, but nonetheless enjoying the company of my parents. Now, they were gone, and I was in an alien world of cameras and strangers and one act after another. That's all it was, really. A big show. And whether we liked it or not, me and all of the other tributes would be the sole focus of Panem's attention for the weeks to come. Until only one of us remained.

"Your mentor will be here to meet you at dinner, too," Julius adds, chewing a piece of fruit. "You will be advised by the District 1 champion from four years ago, since District 8 has yet to produce one." It's true. District 8 has never fared well during the Hunger Games. We're a community of factory workers and seamstresses. We grow up either learning to make fabric, or learning how to press buttons onto coats in an assembly line. Not the kind of skills that'll be much help to us when we're dying of starvation, or being chased by mutated animals, or being pinned to the ground and slaughtered. Maybe this year, though, we'll have a chance – without the opportunity to volunteer, it's possible that the career tributes didn't make it in. Unless of course, their parents bribed everyone to vote for their children. Which is entirely possible.

Noticing that I haven't eaten since his arrival, Julius frowns at me and gestures to the buffet. "Forsythia, darling, you really ought to eat something. You'll need to build up your strength for the games."

"I've had enough," I respond quietly. "I'll eat when I'm hungry." Julius shrugs.

"Suit yourself."

While Julius is stuffing himself with more food, as if he's never seen it before, Brezzo suddenly looks up and stares intently at the window. I follow his gaze, straightening my back and craning my neck to get a better look. Then I see what he's looking at. Across the lake is a cluster of gleaming white buildings, an array of geometric structures that sprawl out into the glistening azure water. We've finally arrived at the Capitol.

_So it begins…_


End file.
